


Good Evening

by dramaticinsanity



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, But Tyrell loves Elliot that is a Fact, Denial of Feelings, Elliot Centric, Flipper appears thrice because I love her fight me, I don't know what's going on in this show half the time, Introspection, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Questioning Reality, Recurring Dream, Sexual Frustration, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, repressed sexuality, semi-lucid dreaming, unhealthy eating habits, what is plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 13:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12557976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaticinsanity/pseuds/dramaticinsanity
Summary: “I love you,” Tyrell states vehemently.“You’re not real,” Elliot yells, and shoots him in the head.





	Good Evening

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t look at me. Oh my god. Don’t. Look. at this.

Eat, work, sleep. Avoid Darlene. Eat, work, sleep. No sign of Mr. Robot. Eat, work, sleep. Some part of him misses the revolution, when he was caught up in the rush. Eat, work, sleep. Bring down another corporate scumbag. Another one bites the dust. Eat, work, sleep. Try to right as much wrong as he can, but it will never really be enough.

He consumes meals to fuel his body. Most days they turn to dust in his mouth. Some days he cannot bring himself eat at all, or he forgets, or waves of nausea hit him and his system purges it. He rides the subway and tries not to wonder if any among them have suffered because of him. He tries to be another cog in an endless machine that is not self aware. He goes to work and gives another pitch.

He pretends he does not despise the sound of his own meek voice. This is important, not the place for self-loathing. No sign of Mr. Robot. No Darlene and being a part of something great-

No this, this is greater than himself. He is fixing it. He is fixing a part of it.

He imagines Angela’s warm mouth on his. He attempts to imagine going beyond that, but he fails. There’s the sinking disappointment of the lack of thrill, like he had expected to be there. There is no spark to be found, but he never subscribed to silly notions of someone being ‘the one’ or your ‘soulmate’. Still, he thought there would be more. She is resistant, she is smart. It was foolish to go there, and he’s an ass. Regardless, he has known her forever and wants it to work. What else is there?

There’s something else.

A sudden embrace, surrounding him in a furnace. It melts him inside like ice in August. Yet on the outside he freezes, as distant and chilled as the moon. He dreams of it. He dreams of hands cupping his face.

They’re a man’s hands, soft and gentle yet large and firm. At first, he is uncertain how a man could make him feel this way, yet here he is, undeniably attracted to this phantom. Truthfully, he had never given much thought to gender before, romantically or sexually. It was not a priority. Prior to his recent dreams, the attraction had mainly been toward women, women close to him.

He knows there’s a term for what he is, but he can’t be asked to recall such a mundane fact. Labels work for some people, but he does not have a personal need for them, at least not at the moment. He simply likes who he likes, and they are usually close to him, which is a rarity to start. He does not think it warrants further examination.

As for the dream, it feels more like an evanescent memory. The fleeting images and rush of emotion, he desperately makes a grab at them. Never can he hold on for long or get it to continue. It recoils from his grasp like smoke. He often wakes up hard and shivering.

When he wakes up, it’s to go through the routine again. A slight change in the routine occurs. It was only a matter of time and impressing the right person. It is a great success for part of his plan of rectification, and he knows he should feel better. There’s some relief, a hint of satisfaction.

He wonders what Tyrell would think. Fake Tyrell has no input so far.

Eat, work, sleep. He’s undoing the damage, and there’s no sign of Mr. Robot.

Until there is.

 

 

A memory from long ago creeps up on him, and it makes him ache. Why, he has no idea. He does not want to examine it. He asks Darlene to stay over, to stave off the ache. He fails. Struggling to sleep, he forces himself to think of Angela, but it’s replaced by Tyrell, and he’s hit by a different kind of ache.

Darlene is there, then she is frightened. There’s no doubt who is responsible. Life goes on, and everything is broken, but he can do (and undo) his part. Does not eat, works, barely sleeps.

Elliot summons Mr. Robot during the session. The therapist’s expression is stricken, and dread drops like a stone in his stomach. He heads home and tries to pretend nothing interesting happened. If it did, no one is forthcoming in talking about it.

There are seeds of mistrust planted. Everything is too quiet He ignores them for now. There will be a time and place to deal with Darlene, and whatever is happening there. He is not ready to deal with the implications.

He tries to sleep and pretends that shadowy man in his dreams is not what he wants. It is not real after all. Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and all he can think of is Tyrell, his focused and intent gaze, his large hands warming his cheeks. If he’s compromised, it’s only in the way of being constantly distracted by this desire for someone who does not exist. Maybe he did once, but if so, he’s dead now.

He remains unsure of what is even real. There was a voice in his ear on the phone, “Bonsoir Elliot”, burning and desperate and inviting. There was a body beside him in a taxi. He longed to be closer, his bafflement held him back. Were they really mere figments of his imagination?

His imagination is good, if Mr. Robot is any indication. And Mr. Robot is not quite a daydream, more a part of himself and someone else combined and brought to the surface. There is a jolt in his stomach.

He briefly considers, as he tends to, just to fool himself a little, that it was all real after all. The manner in which Tyrell’s supposed ghost awakens his senses, how can it be fake? He could smell Tyrell’s woodsy cologne, clashing with the urban scenery, and it made him tingle to his toes. His clear sky colored eyes made his throat tight. He radiated heat despite affecting coldness; As a result, Elliot felt like he was the candle to Tyrell’s moth.

He hates these moments, where he thinks it could have been real. The hope hurts, a pressure crushing his sternum indifferently.

He felt the hand pressing against his abdomen, but it was not real. He saw shaking lips and worry filled blue eyes, but it was all in his head.

Not real, never real, perhaps never was real. He often imagines different scenarios. “Good Evening, Tyrell,” Elliot could have responded on the phone, to nobody. He pictures leaning into the form of the man beside him in the taxi, only to fall through empty air.

In his mind, he kisses the panic away on Tyrell’s face, then demands to know what the hell is going on and why he was shot. There would be no response, or his own subconscious would be talking to him.

He shot himself. He shot Mr. Robot. But he’s still in there somewhere, and why are they compromised? It cannot have anything to do with Tyrell because Tyrell is not real.

If anything was real, his recurring dream most certainly was not. Tyrell’s regard, his love plain even when he did not try to speak it like in the dream, was entirely false. He would never have felt that way for Elliot. Maybe Mr. Robot, he has influence and a kind of confidence Elliot lacks. Yet more than anything he wishes the Tyrell in the memory-dream had leaned for a kiss. It always ends before the physical acknowledgement.

“I love y-”

Intense blue eyes locked with his. It ends there. It always ends there, and it always begins with a hug. Nothing more and nothing less. He yells in frustration, and Flipper hops on the bed to give a lick to his cheek.

If he had a One, it might have been Tyrell. Or it could be someone similar to Tyrell, if ever such a person had existed.

Elliot rolls up in his blanket and tries to ignore that he is pretending to be embraced. It is an impression of a fantasy, and it is not real, and it is not fair.

 

 

He is hard in the morning, nothing out of the ordinary there. This time he closes his eyes and imagines the rest. Tyrell leans in, his hands ever warm. One hand moves and rubs the nape of his neck, and their lips, in his fantasy, are meeting. Fantasy-Elliot parts his lips and welcomes the wet pressure of fantasy-Tyrell’s tongue.

Out loud, he moans softly and cups his crotch. His neglected cock throbs, and he squeezes, acquiescing to the carnal need. It’s Tyrell looming over him, and in his imagining Elliot rolls him over and kisses him harshly. He nips Tyrell’s bottom lip, then shoves his fingers between those plump lips. Once they’re spit slicked, Elliot slides his hands down Tyrell’s nude torso, then thigh, and finds his puckered entrance. He pictures his fingers being engulfed by that tight heat, as best as he can. Distantly, he is surprised at himself.

Sex is not something he usually cares for, and he has often deemed it unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

His attachment to Tyrell should not be this deep. Either Mr. Robot or some other aspect of his subconscious is putting his feelings out of proportion. Regardless, he is overflowing with desire and leaking in his underwear. It seems practical at the moment to take of this now, instead of it bothering him later.

He inhales sharply and imagines himself, using his other hand, running his fingers through Tyrell’s caramel hair.

Tyrell of his fantasy bites his own lip and rolls his hips, to push the fingers further in. He also leans into the caress like a demanding cat. Elliot shoves his hand in his own underwear and runs his thumb over the slit of his dick and tugs on his balls. He allows a long groan to slip past.

His mind forms a tantalizing image of Tyrell, as his mouth forms a circular shape as he lets out a soft, reverent sound. Tyrell’s climax splashes between them. They touch foreheads and share breath. The smell of sweat and sex is amazing.

He bucks his hips and rubs into the unyielding surface of his hand. It’s not quite enough, so he switches the scene and imagines Tyrell’s weight on his back, stretching his hole. He hurriedly licks his own index and middle fingers, and quickly reaches around to breach himself. He winces at the slight burn, but he continues and scissors the appendages. Digging deeper, he curls them carefully and rubs. He cannot remember where he learned this technique. A dull shock travels his spine, and he throws back his head and comes.

It’s not quite the same, as he thinks the real thing would have been.

Not that he knows, considering he has not actually experienced sex with Tyrell (or has he? No, impossible. Even Mr. Robot would never. Would he?). Now he has an idea of how it would feel, at least. Even if it was pathetic, and the resulting disappointment makes him want to scream and scream.

It’s bittersweet. He pretends there is not a wetness at his eyes that he hastily wipes away. Never mind that no one can witness.

It leaves him empty and sticky. There was almost no point to that, and he decides not to have a repeat performance in the future. He groans and lays on his side, curling up. It’s the weekend, and he can deal with the mess later. For an unknown span of time, he doesn’t eat, think, or sleep. He instead vegetates stiffly in bed, overheated under the cover.

 

 

Eventually, he crawls out of bed. He dreamed again, of course. He stares at his hard member as the hot water beats his back, but he does not give in. There’s no reward in it. He thinks of dream-Tyrell’s arms wrapping around him, and he nearly sobs. He presses his thumbs in his eyes and shoves the emotion down.

He takes Flipper to the vet. He should be a more responsible owner, otherwise it makes his rescuing of her have little point. He also needs something do besides sit around and think about Tyrell while pretending to think about work. She curls trustingly in his arms, and he hopes, really hopes, she will not end up another ruined life.

A part of him wonders if Darlene is alright. A part of him knows something's not right, and she is the cause or a pawn in an unknown mechanism conspiring against him. One of the causes or pawns. There is no sign of Mr. Robot. Flipper is going to be alright. It takes him a while to fall asleep, because he will see that dream again.

He wants to see the dream again, but. He should not. He should tell his therapist about Tyrell in the dreams, and he will not. Fake Tyrell is his, all his, whether it's the hallucination or dream version.

His dream is slightly altered, catalyst unknown. Tyrell embraces him, and cups his cheeks. This time, dream-Elliot lets him finish.

“I love you,” Tyrell states vehemently.  
“You’re not real,” Elliot yells, and shoots him in the head.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. He gasps for air and his arousal is nowhere to be found. His heavy breathing fills the quiet apartment.

Flipper whines and climbs on the bed to lick his hand. He pets her absentmindedly, then curves his body inward, wishing Tyrell would appear to kiss and hold him. They were never anything, he reminds himself. Tyrell is dead, or he was never there, he mentally screams at himself.

“I would say it too. But I don’t think I know how. To love someone, that is,” Elliot informs dream-Tyrell, or rather the wall, his voice scratchy with sleep.

Somehow, he believes the real Tyrell would understand.

 

 

 

If only he were real.


End file.
